


Waltz of the Snowflakes

by Theyumenoinu



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Will, Christmas Eve, Fannibal Holiday Exchange, Hannibal is Hannibal, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Manipulation, Murder Husbands, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyumenoinu/pseuds/Theyumenoinu
Summary: “Are you attempting to dissuade me?” he whispers haltingly, mind reeling with the accuracy of the monster’s insight.“Not at all,” Hannibal assures, baring his neck encouragingly. “You may begin when you’re ready.”And with those supplicating words, Will’s motivation hits brick. Rearing back onto his knees to tower over the solid form lying beneath him with a dawning sense of horror.He doesn’t want this game to end.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal or its characters.  
> For: http://knowmefirst.tumblr.com/

**Waltz of the Snowflakes**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you waiting for someone?”

Will starts at the unexpected address. Jerking his attention from the throng of passengers filing into the terminal to the man, who mere minutes prior settled himself gracefully onto the chair adjacent. A rather suspicious decision, considering the countless vacant seats to select from, and conceiving it to be a deliberate invasion of his personal space--if nothing else.

The man sits regally; one leg folded over the other and hands clasped elegantly at the knee. His suit meticulously pressed and tailored with silver wings pinned perfectly to his breast, and shoes polished to a remarkable shine.

Practically screaming 'pretentious bastard' by outer aspects alone.

Hazarding a glimpse at the pilot’s face, Will catalogs the chiseled jawline and sharp cheek bones before fixating on the Windsor knot of his tie. Not daring to meet the intangible weight of the man’s probing stare.

“No,” Will replies tersely, hoping his flat tone conveys his distaste for small talk.

“I see.” From his peripherals, Will watches the man tilt his head a degree to the side in intrigue. “Forgive my curiosity, but I have noticed you waiting here; every day for the past several weeks.”

“And so you resolved that to be an invitation to pry into my personal affairs?” Will huffs, and wrenches his gaze from the garish paisley tie in favor of observing the new flood of arrivals. Reveling in the purity of two children’s joy as they bound straight for the welcoming arms of their visiting grandparents. The security and warmth of their embrace washing over him—only to withdraw quickly when the sensation is replaced by a twinge of guilt for covertly infringing upon their private moment.

A thoughtful hum informs him the pilot has yet to tire of his company--or really, lack thereof. Withstanding Will’s rebuffs comparatively better than most, as though enjoying the challenge presented rather than taking offense.

“I believe I have overstepped my bounds and possibly made an irreparable first impression,” the pilot starts at length, though not without a subtle, vexed intonation at having to admit to his own faults. “If there is a chance at redemption, perhaps we could start over?”

A cynical snort escapes Will at that. Not failing to miss the implication he’s partly to blame for the unpleasant discourse.

“I don’t find you that interesting,” he admits acerbically, studying the holiday décor to further solidify the fact and emphasize the dismissal. Steeling himself for the typical ‘turn the other cheek’ response, and the inevitable awkwardness of their parting.

“You will.”

The sudden assertion startles him enough to whip his head around. Registering, belatedly, the pilot’s point of victory by firmly attaining his elusive regard. His lips quirking at Will’s fractional lapse in control.

“You seem awfully confident.” Warily flicking his eyes upwards to meet the pilot’s, he flinches back when he beholds a fathomless dark sea encircled by rings of dying embers. A presence stirring within, threatening to consume--if one were to gaze too long into their depths. “Haven’t been denied much in life, have you,” Will presumes, voice softening in pitch.

“Only the simple pleasure of a civil conversation, it seems,” the pilot counters with a distinct, hard edge. “God forbid, we become friendly.”

Will releases a self-deprecating chuckle at that, averting his gaze with notable effort. “Consider it sparing both of us immense disappointment, if nothing else.”

The pilot hums again in response as his fingers unfold to smooth a wrinkle from his pants. Taking exception to Will’s outlook by retaining what little ground he’s gained.

“Or, perhaps, you believe it’s easier to isolate yourself than continually anticipate rejection,” he surmises. “The dull ache of loneliness, a minor price to pay to successfully deflect the sting of callous discard.”

It’s an acute observation, if not hitting the nail directly on the head. The analysis too keen to be dismissed as passive speculation.

“Are all pilots this invasive?” Will accuses, inwardly teetering on the idea of storming off. “Or do flight schools offer psychology courses now?”

A soft, amused chuckle feathers into his ear. The sound nearly lost to the clamor of holiday travelers and the intermittent announcements blaring over the loudspeakers.

“I admit,” he begins, “my skills reach beyond the realm of aviation. A change in profession being refreshing and necessary, at times.”

Will’s brows inch upwards, surprised by the volunteered information. “From human minds to mechanical ones; that’s quite a change.”

The pilot considers it silently for a span of a heartbeat.

“The difference is not so vast. Both require a steady hand to navigate towards a desired destination—a certain trust by those in my charge.” He pauses, permitting Will a chance for further prodding. However, when the silence stretches far beyond what is deemed polite, his patience wavers. “Is the concept of friendship truly so daunting?”

“I don’t care to befriend psychologists,” Will comments offhandedly, pointedly avoiding the man’s eyes. Observing a young couple caught in lip lock at the edge of the waiting area; desperate for tangible reassurance before enduring another lengthy military deployment. Causing Will to intake a steadying breath at the tug of mutual loneliness it brings him.

“Always too tempted to pick my brain, as you’ve previously demonstrated,” Will continues with a shuddering exhale. “Already taking the liberty of digging inside my head before I know your name.”

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” the pilot provides remarkably quick, as though it’s a peace offering. “Captain, when in flight,” he adds in afterthought. A short, taut silence passing in the space between them before he prompts: “And you?”

“Will Graham. And sadly, absent of any impressive titles.” He becomes rigid, then, when it occurs to him the interplay has seamlessly shifted in balance. Dr. Lecter having circumvented the rules of social finesse just enough to locate a crack in his barriers. Adeptly keeping pace with Will’s side of the conversation while surreptitiously steering him towards his own coveted outcome.

Dr. Lecter's skills, seemingly, honed in all areas.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graham,” Dr. Lecter carries on, refraining from commenting on Will’s visibly dawning comprehension. “It is nice to finally have a name to go with the face.”

Will shifts uncomfortably in his seat, forcing his attention back to intently examine the pin.

“Make friends in airports often, Doctor?” he asks, petulantly. “Don’t find it tasteless in the slightest bit?”

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor gently corrects, pushing for even ground in spite of flaunting his status. “And I confess that I do not. I find it more tasteful to make friends by having them for dinner.”

“A prestige socialite,” Will concludes, eyes widening with sarcastic emphasis. “Who would’ve guessed?”

The barest, indrawn sigh clearly conveys to Will that he’s toeing the limits of the man’s good humor. Hannibal’s polite conduct briefly slipping, friendly mask budging a hair out of place.

“Bitterness often conceals jealously, Will,” Hannibal states. The modest use of his name hoisting a giant red flag in Will's mind, and effectively putting him on guard. “I’ve observed you looking upon the crowd, mentally interchanging yourself in hopes to obtain what you have long been denied.”

At that, Will’s eyes dart upwards with genuine disconcertion. Fearful of just how deep Hannibal’s implicit knowledge runs while a hint of a smile plays upon the man’s lips.

“You are not alone out of preference; you are alone, because you are unique," Hannibal concludes.

A rush of air expels from Will’s lips as though he’s received a physical blow. His defenses crumbling in a manner of seconds, leaving him terrifyingly vulnerable to the man’s scrutiny. The sensation of being effortlessly penetrated eliciting an icy chill to crawl along his spine.

Will is trembling when he finally manages to speak; no longer confident in where he stands. “I’m as alone as you are.” He swallows thickly. Tentatively inserting himself into Hannibal’s perspective. “But, I’m not the one desperately seeking connection.”

Hannibal responds with an inscrutable grin. A tempered hunger gleaming in his eyes.

“Then, I believe we should appreciate this moment in solidarity. Share comfort in the rarity of profound understanding,” he says, and rises with unfailing grace. Buttoning his jacket with one hand, while extending Will the other in invitation.

“Misery loves company?” Will questions, scrutinizing the outstretched palm with increasing apprehension.

Another soft chuckle dances upon the air.

“I suppose we shall see, won’t we?”

 

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Will opts to leave his car behind, permitting Hannibal to navigate him in direction of his awaiting Bentley. The ride from Dulles International to Baltimore fraught with nervous tension, and only smoothed over by the harmonious, classical scores of Strauss emitting faintly from the speakers.

Snowflakes gather along the frame of the windshield as the wiper blades scrape an irregular rhythm across the glass. Will studying the movement with detached interest, while glancing periodically at the profile of the man behind the wheel—only to be frustratingly met with a blank wall. Hannibal’s countenance remaining inscrutable, calm. His demeanor relaxed as though they’ve been acquainted for years, not merely a couple hours.

“No plans on Christmas Eve night, except to entertain a random stranger?” Will tentatively severs their linked silence, noting how Hannibal does not visibly react to his voice. The man a master of control, and clearly not the type to be taken off guard so easily.

“I could ask the same of you,” he redirects. “Do you not have family to spend the holidays with? Or do your plans always consist of sitting in airport terminals?”

Will winces. Coming to comprehend that Hannibal is reprimanding him for his boldness; especially, after harshly conjecturing the man’s loneliness forty-five minutes prior. Catching the sentiment and hidden message instantly without need of confirmation: _Quid pro quo_.

“I have dogs,” Will provides, believing it vague enough to spare him from the cumbersome disclosure of his familial situation, or any other pertinent detail. “They’re not particularly conscious of holidays, so when I take them ice fishing on Christmas, it’s just any other day to them. They don’t notice the difference.”

“No, I suppose not,” Hannibal agrees, gracing him with an indulgent smile. “But I’m sure they notice your absence, just the same.”

Will nods, appreciatively, and scrubs tiredly at his eyes beneath the rims of his glasses.

“What about you?” he ventures. Accepting the unspoken terms of their conversation, and making certain Hannibal upholds his end.

“I usually attend a performance; The Nutcracker or an opera.” It’s an answer as it is an evasion, prompting Will to curiously return his regard. “My schedule this year, however, did not allow for such traditions,” he concludes.

“Sorry to be a meager second choice,” Will mutters, fidgeting with the zipper of his coat out of anxious habit.

“You are neither,” Hannibal eases. “I find you rather engaging.”

Will chokes out a skeptical sound, and tugs at the dampening collar of his jacket. Sweat gathering along his skin as the heat blasting from the vents is adjusted higher to combat the condensation fogging the windshield.

“That’s a first.”

He shivers at the sudden sensation of Hannibal’s eyes roving over him. Searching for a lie or, possibly, interpreting the double meaning.

“Is it so difficult to believe that someone might enjoy your company?” Hannibal wonders.

“Frankly? Yes.” Will huffs. “You can ask my colleagues; they dodge casual interaction like I’ve come down with the plague. And my students only speak to me when necessity calls for it.”

“I thought your name came without titles?”

Will’s heart nearly stutters to a halt at that. His blood running cold when it strikes him that he’s just made a misstep; revealing far too much information with no affirmation that Hannibal is willing to equalize.

“I, uh, said none that are impressive,” he strives for plausibility. “Being a professor is hardly comparable.”

It’s a flimsy recovery, but Hannibal appears to buy into it. “Being a professor is both honorable and admirable. Where, and what subject, do you teach?”

Although there’s an express of genuine curiosity, Will can’t help but feel he’s being cornered, again. Guided into another trap that will extract from him what Hannibal is adamantly after. His world swimming momentarily, as he conceives the notion that he’s far more exposed than he initially believed.

 _Well,_ he thinks. _In for a penny…_

“Behavioral science at the academy in Quantico.”

The man beside him instantly stills. Will noting a chill descending upon them, despite the heater—only for it to dispel as quickly as it came. Each click of the turn signal puncturing the silence, as Hannibal decidedly merges onto an exit ramp.

“Interesting,” he admits at length, tone carefully measured. His desire to sink his teeth in further pounding against Will like a steady beat of a drum. Knowing that the doctor is keenly aware that by doing so, he’ll violate the rules of their little game, which could eventually shatter the brittle trust that’s gradually formed—crystallizing with each tiny concession.

Turning his head toward the window, Will mutely looks out on the wintry scene of the city. Leaving Hannibal starving for stimulus while he imagines the potential events impending the night. Thumbing the send button on his cell hidden within his coat pocket with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Will scans the interior of Hannibal’s home with somewhat of a gawk; discovering the reality far surpasses his expectations. Hannibal lacking hesitance when he assists him out of his coat, and leads him from the foyer past several impeccably arranged rooms, all embellished with fine art and luxurious furnishings. Frugality, a distant concept, and overshadowed by obsessive ostentatiousness—as is common with most affluent individuals.

Still, Hannibal’s essence permeates every inch of space. Bringing a sense of comfort Will can’t quite place a finger on, and coaxes him farther inside, assuaging any misgivings that may arise.

Hannibal guides him into a dimly lit sitting room, gesturing him to take a seat in one of the armchairs with a casual sweep of his hand. “Please, make yourself comfortable. May I offer you a drink?”

“Whiskey, if you have it,” Will says at once, glancing over his shoulder to Hannibal’s unblinking stare before hastening to add, “Please.”

“I’m afraid I do not. I do, however, have a bottle of Hennessy _Paradis Imperial_ ,” Hannibal suggests. “Blended from several hundred rare _eaux de vie_ , and aged for eighty years.”

Will nods agreeably, understanding he’s in no position to be picky, and that soon the drinks will be abandoned in favor of another form of pleasure.

“That will be fine. Thank you.”

Dipping his head in understanding, Hannibal swiftly departs the room, leaving Will to his own devices.   

Walking the perimeter, he catalogs the finer details of the décor; skimming the titles of books on the bookcase, and fidgeting with unidentifiable antiques. Stopping short at a framed piece adjacent some shelving that adorns a multitude of statuettes, his interests immediately piqued by the scene illustrated.

It's an 18th century painting, if he’s to make an educated guess, and a bit more macabre than some other artwork threaded throughout the home; though, not overtly so. There is evident mourning, yet dignity. The man facing his imminent demise proudly and undefeated.

“ _The Death of Socrates_ by French painter, Jacques-Louise David, 1787.”

Will whips his head around with a start, discovering Hannibal standing merely a foot from him; divested of his pilot attire and clad in a silk, maroon button down and ebony dress pants. An apologetic smile softening the tautness of his features as he proffers one of the crystal tumblers in his hands.

Eying the drink for a prolonged second, Will eventually accepts. The glass chilly against his sweaty palm as he warily brings it under his nose for a whiff. Hannibal watching him raptly while he nestles the rim between his lips and tentatively sips. Relief instantly flooding him when only the pleasant burn of alcohol is the aftereffect.

“Socrates was accused of impiety and the corruption of youth by the Athenian government,” Hannibal continues, averting his gaze to the painting with open admiration. “He was offered a choice: denounce his beliefs with the possibility of exile or ingest a drink made from hemlock.”

“Two kinds of death: one of personal identity, and the other, physical,” Will expands, regarding the painting with a sidelong glance. “With the former being an indignity, he opted for the latter.”

“Yes,” Hannibal assents. “To Socrates, death was not a defeat, but a cure.”

Will’s eyes snap back to search Hannibal’s face, remarking how well he masks his ratcheting excitement with a nonchalant sip. “Still, he must have feared the concept of dying,” Will ventures.

“Perhaps…” Hannibal pauses for a span of a breath, “he found the idea of death comforting. That the thought of his life ending at any moment freed him to fully appreciate the beauty, art, and horror of everything this world has to offer. The prospect of dying allowing him a chance to be enlightened and revered for what he was in life.”

“Does it free you to appreciate everything the world has to offer?” Will wonders, gifting Hannibal a focused, heated look in hopes to elicit the response he’s aiming for.

Lips parting a fraction, and pupils dilating with carnal hunger, Hannibal willingly admits, “Often.” Then, with speed that Will doesn’t expect, he grasps Will’s face, and lays claim to his mouth.

The flesh of Hannibal’s mouth is soft and pliant, but all too eager to devour. Demanding Will’s reciprocation, which Will returns gladly—losing himself to the overwhelming domination. Permitting Hannibal’s tongue entrance, and not resisting his lead. A hiss of pain and pleasure escaping him when teeth tug at his lower lip, drawing forth an unbidden moan from Hannibal’s throat. The sound shooting blood straight to his groin.

They separate briefly, panting in part breathlessness and arousal. Will knowing he only has mere seconds before he’s swept under the man’s sensual influence again. His voice scarcely audible as he commands, “Bedroom.”

Hannibal pulls away, a dark glint in his eye, and rotates his body with intent to do as told. It’s what Will’s been patiently angling for—a moment of vulnerability.

The crystal fractures in his hand upon impact with the back of the man’s skull. A splintered piece ripping open the flesh of his palm with a searing sting as Hannibal collapses firstly to his knees before slumping gracelessly to the floor.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Hannibal stirs after a stretch of minutes. A rustle of fabric piercing the cold silence as his head shifts against the silk pillows of his bed. Will spying his brief disorientation by the slight pinch of skin between his brows, and the questioning tug at the handcuffs restraining him to the headboard before recollection floods the russet tones of his eyes. His expression verging on awe as his gaze seeks and settles upon Will seated beside him.

“You are the consultant I’ve read about in online articles,” he starts bluntly, genuinely impressed and visibly malcontent by Will’s deceitful seduction. “Although you have only been mentioned since the start of December, I assume your insights were invaluable during prior investigations. Tell me, how long have you worked for the FBI?”

“The entire time, you’ve been digging for confirmation I’m _that_ Will Graham,” Will infers, tonelessly. Struggling to detach the taut strands of empathy still binding him to the lingering traces of Hannibal’s humanity, but to little avail. His attempt at dodging the albatross only serving to heighten Hannibal’s curiosity. The scorching heat of the man’s hunger, despite his current predicament, snatching the breath from Will’s lungs.

“And long enough,” he grounds out.

“Enough to establish an unshakable credibility, so you may move about undetected by both the Bureau and the media,” Hannibal finishes, undeniably complimentary.

Will shrugs, easily catching the open-ended phrasing. “Yes.”

Hannibal releases a low hum of comprehension at that.

“It must be invigorating; holding their blind faith in one hand, and the bleeding hearts of your victims in the other,” Hannibal needles, eyes glittering with unbridled fascination.

“Shouldn’t you know?” Will returns, petulant; not forthcoming on incriminating details, considering their game has yet to near its end.

Lips twitching, Hannibal inclines his head an inch in challenge. “You tell me.”

The continuous spin on the conversation irks Will beyond measure, never able to obtain a sturdy foothold to maintain control. His feathers ruffling at the knowing smirk that etches lazily across Hannibal’s face, savoring Will’s agitation like a vintage wine.

“Are you playing coy with me?” Will nearly snarls through gritted teeth, inwardly berating himself for the minor slip in his façade.

“No,” Hannibal replies with an air of nonchalance. “However, the nature of any game is subjective to the position of the players. What is to be considered normal or an act of hostility will depend, solely, on perspective.”

“‘What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.’” Will huffs a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the coarse stubble blanketing his cheek. “You’re wrapped pretty tightly in my web right now, but I have the distinction you don’t view yourself as the fly.”

The man’s countenance shadows with something indiscernible. Humor leeching from his tone, as he counters, “Perhaps you underestimate me.”

Will’s confidence wavers. A sudden urge to recheck the restraints washing over him before he shakes himself; not daring to give Hannibal the satisfaction. “There’s nothing to underestimate. I’ve stepped into your shoes with each murder you’ve committed; saw through your eyes, studied your habits and abilities, witnessed the extent of your design.”

“Pure empathy is a rare gift,” Hannibal remarks, unflappable as ever. “Something that should not be squandered.”

“It’s more a curse,” he contests. “But in this case, it helped me catch you.”

Hannibal’s brow quirks, interests piqued. “How did you determine my identity?”

“The match in signatures,” Will swiftly answers. “All of the organs harvested were surgically removed by both the Chesapeake Ripper and the Terminal Slayer. Plus, both killed in sounders of three—coincidentally, in the duration of the other’s closed window. The tableaus were themed, and messages similar; it was an easy deduction.”

Running his poorly wrapped palm absentmindedly along the material of his slacks, he continues, “I looked into records of all Dulles employees. Turns out, there is only one on staff with surgical experience.” Boldly meeting the assumed cannibal’s captivating stare, Will finishes triumphantly, “Your main hunting ground became the terminal. After all, it gives you a steady influx of unworthy swine to stealthily pick from. It was only a matter of time before I ran into you; especially, once I made myself an open and interesting target.”

“Fishing,” Hannibal connects easily. “Placing yourself as bait to lure me in.”

“I’m very skilled,” Will boasts. “You didn’t even notice the hook sinking into your skin.”

A hum in assent filters over the pops and crackles from the fireplace. “In that case,” Hannibal cocks his head, bangs falling against his forehead, “all there is left to do is clean and gut your prize.”

“You don’t seem too concerned by that,” Will notes, scrutinizing Hannibal’s placid features with mounting suspicion. “Why?”

He grins wolfishly. “Do you think you’ll be leaving here the same as when you first entered?”

“I know I will.”

“Do you?”

A spiritless laugh spills forth from Will as his nerves receive another hit.

“I have the upper hand,” he states, though it hardly sounds convincing. “I have control.” And to emphasize, Will collects Hannibal’s butcher knife from its placement on the mattress at his thigh; twisting it to allow the firelight to catch menacingly on the blade.

Eying the weapon approvingly, Hannibal wonders, “Are you intending to cure me, Will, or yourself?”  

Will shakes his head, not willing to venture into that specific territory. “I’m not a psychopath. I don’t kill to elevate myself; I save innocent lives.”

“Righteousness is merely a motive; it does not substitute for what you are, my dear Will,” he enlightens. “We are as similar as we are opposite—identically different.”

With a scoff, Will recoils, “I’m nothing like you.”

Hannibal gives him a pointed look, flicking his eyes indicatively toward the knife. “Is that right?”

“What I do is an infliction of justice,” he defends.

Lips pursing in feigned thought, Hannibal argues, “You could have handed me over to the authorities; have me stand trial and confine me to a prison cell for what remains of my life. Yet you chose this method of punishment, instead.” Will flinches, and is summarily awarded with a victorious smile from his prey who presses on, “Killing bad men feels good, because it makes you feel godlike. It allows you to uphold conventional morality while sating the hunger clawing at your flesh.”

Will moves involuntarily; blinking, as he comes back to himself to discover he’s straddling the beast, the knife poised at his throat. “Are you attempting to dissuade me?” he whispers haltingly, mind reeling with the accuracy of the monster’s insight.

“Not at all,” Hannibal assures, baring his neck encouragingly. “You may begin when you’re ready.”

And with those supplicating words, Will’s motivation hits brick. Rearing back onto his knees to tower over the solid form lying beneath him with a dawning sense of horror.

He doesn’t want this game to end.

Will presumes the thought must show on his face, because Hannibal is quick to shatter the illusion of submission with a sudden, loud pop of his thumb. His hips twisting simultaneously, overbalancing Will with practiced ease, and causing the world to rush upwards momentarily, as their positions switch. The firm hand at his nape shoving him down onto the bed with remarkable force, seeing stars, while his wrist is wrenched behind his back, tearing a cry of pain from his lips—his grip on the knife slackening, allowing the handle to slide free, and hearing it as it lands with a thud onto the floor.

As he’s pressed further into the mattress by Hannibal’s gradual weight, he sucks in a sharp breath at the brush of hard length against the curve of his ass. And shivering at the caress of heat, when the monster’s mouth traces the soft shell of his ear.

“You are exceptional,” Hannibal murmurs, his hand slipping between the duvet and Will’s stomach in an act of possession. “Beautiful in every way. Exceeding all expectations.”

Will groans wantonly once the hand journeys lower, smoothing over the material trapping his own rapidly filling cock. His body shocked by the mixture of stabbing pain at his shoulder and the pleasure building in southern regions; mind appalled by the effortlessness of complete surrender.

Leaning away, Hannibal resolutely keeps him restrained, while he relinquishes him to grasp tenaciously at his waist; angling it upwards before snaking back around to access the straining button of Will’s pants. Deftly unhooking it, and yanking the hindrance of material to bunch at the bend of knees with uncharacteristic impatience. His fingers trailing lightly over Will’s exposed ass, dipping into the crevice to tease fingertips along the taut skin—Will’s hips jerking at the feathery sensation.

It’s where Hannibal’s niceties end, however, and Will emits a shout at the burning pain, as sharp teeth sink into the meat of his cheek. His cock jumping, as a bolt of pure ecstasy courses hotly through his veins; balls tightening in threat of release.

A rumble of satisfaction escapes Hannibal, as he fights for breath. And wincing, when a wet caress of tongue laps hungrily at the throbbing wound before diving in to lavish the tight ring of muscle. Will’s free hand fisting the silk duvet, while he’s coaxed open. Gasping at the unexpected grip of the skilled hand, returning to languidly stroke his neglected member.

“Don’t move,” Hannibal growls after an indeterminate amount of time, and shifts without warning. The bed dipping under his weight, as he awkwardly reaches to fish in the side table drawer. Will watching his actions intently, noting how his blood stains the flesh of the cannibal’s mouth.

Hannibal repositions himself upon retrieving the lube. The jingle of his belt buckle reverberating through the bedroom, tempting Will into straining to glance over his shoulder—his heart skipping a beat, once he beholds a dark, humanoid creature looming in place of Hannibal. Antlers sprouting from its skull, and eyes absent of color and emotion. Its head tilting in puzzlement, before elongated, talon fingers anchor themselves at his hipbones.

Closing his eyes, Will intakes a deep breath. A thrill rushing over him, when the lubricated tip steadily penetrates him. The burn unbearably wonderful, while his muscles work to accommodate Hannibal’s girth. Unafraid, as his throat is captured in a potentially lethal cage that cuts a fraction of his air supply with a powerful squeeze.

The creature—Hannibal—rams into him in response; giving in to his animalistic urges, as he continues the punishing pace. Will gladly aiding the rhythm, and reveling in being wholly filled—relishing being seen as an equal.

He reaches to take himself in hand, pumping in time with Hannibal’s thrusts, until the dam breaks from the pressure. Euphoria washing over him in billowing waves, as he spills hotly into his patched palm. Hannibal finding release soon after; a harsh, grating sound perforating the air, as he claims Will entirely.

Will collapses instantly onto the bed, boneless and sated; only moving when he feels the mattress indent when Hannibal follows suit. The man—no longer the creature—shifting until he’s fully facing Will, eyes hooded in utter bliss.

“I should tell you,” Will rasps, chest heaving from the exertion. “Jack Crawford and I planned the set-up. We knew we couldn’t catch you, unless you were caught red-handed. He’ll be here soon; I’ve already sent him the text.”

Hannibal hardly seems taken aback. “We could disappear, right now—together,” he offers.

With a solemn shake of his head, Will quietly informs, “He’ll hunt us both, relentlessly.” Licking nervously along his chapped, bottom lip, he admits, “He knows what I am.”

The man adopts an unnerving quietude, causing Will’s attention to drop to his chin. Uncertain, of what will come from disclosing such information.

“Then we are to take him by surprise, instead,” Hannibal proposes, gently brushing errant curls from the sweat coating Will’s forehead. “When the rabbit screams, the fox will come running.” He locks his gaze with Will, the russet tones alight with simmering malevolence. “But not to help,” he finishes.

Will _smiles_.

**Author's Note:**

> "What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly." -Morticia Addams


End file.
